The Prophet stories grow more laughable by the day. In the two and a half weeks that follow, Harry and Draco have performed a bonding ceremony (a pre-engagement, according to Hermione), exchanged rings, and gone to the altar at a frenzied pace, according to the press. Of course, those that know the two of them well, or really at all, are wise to the fact that none of this is true, that Harry and Draco are simply dating, nothing more. Still, Harry clips the photos from each article till there's quite the sizable stack on the corner of his desk, pictures of him and Draco out to lunch, at the Ministry's next gala, and in a park a block or two from work that they both quite liked before they dated and enjoy substantially more now that they're together.
"We could get a proper picture of the two of us, you know," Draco comments one Saturday afternoon as he and Harry settle in to watch the Cannons play the Wasps in the first game of the Quidditch finals. Ron and Hermione are set to arrive within half an hour, as are Theo and his new fiancée, Astoria Greengrass, and Neville, who has indeed been jilted by Luna.
"Like a portrait?" asks Harry.
Draco nods. "I wouldn't mind having something to put on my desk or on the wall in my flat," he says. "Then you could get rid of the growing number of photos taken through trees and shrubs and all manner of greenery."
Harry's laughing at Ron and Hermione walk in. They exchange greetings and Hermione and Draco almost immediately launch into a conversation about the ongoing case against Dalton Safry, a protégé of Fenrir Greyback's who Harry, Ron, and several other Aurors captured on a recent raid.
"There's no way we won't get him," Harry hears Draco reassuring Hermione before tuning out the discussion. "The evidence against him is staggering."
"Leave them to talk about work when the best game of the season so far's about to start," Ron says to Harry with a grin. "So Nott's going to be here today, too? And Neville?"
"Yeah, the two of them, and Theo's fiancée as well," says Harry. "Be nice to her. I'm sure she's still struggling with the fact that her husband couldn't find her less attractive."
"Not entirely true," Theo says as he walks in with a slim blonde in tow. Though Harry doesn't typically notice when women are pretty, it's impossible in this case. Astoria's blue eyes sparkle as she looks around the room, even her closed-mouth half smile is stunning, and her prominent breasts seem fit to burst out of her already low cut shirt. Ron notices, too, and Hermione breaks away from Draco long enough to notice Ron noticing, and Harry stifles a chuckle at the conversation they'll surely have about that fact later.
"See, Harry, as I'm sure you'll notice, Astoria is as nice to look at as a classic painting or a fine piece of architecture," says Theo.
"And I do love being compared to castles and Monets," Astoria says dryly, extricating herself from Theo and plunking down in the seat beside Hermione. "Hi," she says to Hermione. "We've never met, but I really admire the work you did last year in the Rodanthe case. He was a former coworker of my father's and a perfectly despicable human being."
Hermione, caught off guard, thanks Astoria, and the two of them begin talking about the finer points of that particular case, of which Harry has no recollection. He tugs at Draco's arm, and he, Draco, Theo, and Ron gather at the back of the booth to get a drink.
"No matter how devoted I am to scotch," says Theo, "I can never say no to cheap beer during a Quidditch match. Now, Weasley, I know you support the Cannons, but do you really think they have half a chance today?"
The conversation that follows is sure to be heated, so Harry and Draco step aside.
"Astoria seems great," says Harry. "Would you have been matched with her, you think, if your mother was on with that tradition?"
"Almost certainly," Draco says. "And in terms of intellect and humor, a gay man couldn't make a better female friend than Astoria. If I were even ten percent straighter, I think I would've been able to grin and bear it. Or at least take on a cold yet respectable patrician front and bear it."
"Thank God you aren't," says Harry, putting his hand on Draco's waist in a way he hopes is surreptitious. No one seems to pay them much mind, and Draco returns the gesture.
"Not when you're here, and have been since I was 16," Draco says. "Anyway, Astoria's not as delicate as you think. She understands the arrangement and will most likely continue seeing Paolo Rodrigues after she and Theo wed."
"The Spanish Quidditch player? The disgustingly attractive one?"
"Yes, the disgustingly attractive one," says Draco. "They've been carrying on for a couple years solid and I have to say, their ability to hide it from the press is beyond impressive."
"We could've done it if we tried," Harry says.
Draco laughs. "You know that's not true. You can't keep your hands off me, no matter where we are."
"I guess I'll concede," says Harry, briefly slipping both arms around Draco's waist and kissing his cheek before backing away slightly. Though he and Draco haven't been further than snogging yet, that suits Harry just fine; he's never come across a better kisser than Draco, nor a man whose company he's enjoyed more. He sees no need to pay attention to anyone else when Draco's around, but he does it anyway because it really is fun, spending time with their now-mutual friends and having a few drinks and playing a card game or two while they gossip and discuss and debate.
At least, it's fun when he isn't around, Harry thinks as Neville enters the booth.
Since Luna broke up with him two days after Draco first brought up the idea that she certainly would, Neville's been in a kind of malaise, skiving off his apprenticeship with Professor Sprout and whinging about the trials and tribulations of brokenheartedness to anyone who would listen. Over time, the number of those who would is dwindling, and Draco has never quite belonged to that group. Now, Harry has become Neville's favorite confidant, and, as Draco puts it, Harry is too fucking nice to shut out Neville.
"Hi, Harry," says Neville, not giving Draco a second glance. Harry's not fond of the adoring way Neville's been looking at him, and he knows Draco feels similarly—perhaps to a greater degree. Regardless, Draco shoves a drink in Neville's hand and asks how he's holding up. Neville, still not paying any more attention to Draco than is necessary, launches into an explanation of how awful it's been, going to Diagon Alley without Luna and feeling everyone staring at him.
"You know that's not true, right?" Harry asks. "Everyone's involved enough in their own day-to-day that they'd never know you've broken up with your girlfriend and you're depressed about it."
"That's kind of a strong word for it, don't you think?"
Draco laughs. It's almost harsh sounding, but not quite. "Neville, you don't eat any more than is necessary to survive, you don't go to work, and you hardly talk to anyone who isn't Harry. Hell, you're having trouble looking at me right now, and I'm talking straight to you. If that's not depressed, I don't know what is."
Neville stares at Draco and, several long seconds later, nods. "I guess you're right."
"Hermione, have you got a quill?" Draco calls to Hermione. She nods and tosses him one along with a small inkpot.
"Do you need paper, too?" she asks.
"No, I'm good there." Draco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a square piece of parchment. Harry wonders how he's gotten so close to people who carry inkpots and stationery-style parchment around as Draco writes a name Harry recognizes, along with an address, in tight, neat script Harry's become quite familiar with.
"Hannah's the second in command of our department," Draco says, handing Neville the piece of parchment. "She's gone through a lot, she knows what having your heart broken feels like, and she's an extremely good listener. I believe the two of you would get along quite well."
Neville looks slightly dazed. "Right. Why the address?"
"You're going to firecall her tomorrow evening, and the two of you are going to have dinner together," Draco informs Neville. "I'll be getting in contact with her tonight. Now, shall we watch this match?"
Hours later, when the Cannons have squeaked by the Wasps for a 10-point victory and everyone's gone back to wherever it was they came from, Harry says to Draco, "That was really remarkably nice of you."
Draco's head is in Harry's lap, and the two of them are on the couch in Harry's flat, not paying much attention to whatever's on television. They seem to switch off, location-wise, and today's Harry's day to play host. "What was?" Draco asks, craning his neck to look up at Harry.
"What you did for Neville," says Harry, running his fingers through Draco's hair. "I wouldn't have thought to do something like that."
"Yes, you would've," Draco says, closing his eyes. "It just would've taken you longer, since you weren't as annoyed as I was."
"Still, I'm impressed."
"And easily so."
"Are you complaining about me liking something you did?" Harry leans down and taps Draco on the chin. "That means you should move closer to me so I can kiss you."
"Thanks for the direction." Draco obliges and they indulge in a bit of an upside down snogging session. Soon enough, Draco's flipped over and on top of Harry, and they're inching ever closer to whatever comes after what they've been doing so well for some weeks now. Harry slips his hands underneath Draco's shirt, tracing the curve of his spine with his fingertips, and Draco's mouth is on Harry's neck, going lower and lower until he's tugging impatiently at Harry's collar.
"This would be easier, you know," Draco says, panting slightly, "if we were wearing less."
"True." Harry pulls at the back of Draco's shirt; Draco straightens up for a moment to pull it over his head and encourages Harry to do the same by running his fingers along the hem of Harry's shirt. Harry does what's nonverbally asked of him, and they look at each other for a few long seconds.
"I hate that I put that there," Harry says, tracing the cluster of thin white lines on Draco's chest with his index finger.
"Don't do the guilt thing, Harry," says Draco. "Doesn't look good on you. Besides, scars are sexy. Where's this one from?" He runs his hand along Harry's right shoulder.
"Werewolf," Harry says. "In Dublin. I have a few from that particular trip."
"So rugged," says Draco, half teasing. "Quit staring, would you?"
"I'm sorry. It's not the scars. It's just ... your body. I don't think I'd ever get sick of looking at it. And it's scary, really."
"Why's that scary?"
"It's just ... you. You're, this, it's so far beyond anything I've had before."
Draco leans in and kisses Harry, hard and fast and deep. "You know I feel the same way," he says, sounding a bit throaty. "And you know I want to show you how I feel. Can I do that?"
"How exactly would you be doing that?"
Draco bends his head to nibble at Harry's collarbones; Harry attempts to hold back a whimper but gives up rather quickly as Draco all but devours the upper half of his chest before moving southward. "Well, I can think of a few ways," he nearly whispers. "But we could start with this." He reaches for the zip on Harry's denims. "That is, if you're open to that. Are you?"
Harry laughs weakly. "I can't—do you really even have to ask?"
Draco looks up and smiles before going to work, the kind of work Harry's been waiting for and wanting but putting off for weeks. He's sure now. They both are. And Draco couldn't look happier about it. "I suppose we don't need words for this part," he says, and Harry sighs and doesn't think another coherent thought for quite some time.